


letters from liselotte

by firstaudrina



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Epistolary, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:19:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21828088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstaudrina/pseuds/firstaudrina
Summary: Christmas in France isn't quite what Liselotte is used to.
Relationships: Elisabeth Charlotte | Liselotte & Philippe d'Orléans | Monsieur & Chevalier de Lorraine
Comments: 18
Kudos: 46
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	letters from liselotte

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThebanSacredBand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThebanSacredBand/gifts).



> Since the IRL Liselotte was known for her prolific letter-writing, I decided to pay homage to that with this fic. The letters are addressed to her aunt, Duchess Sophie of Braunschweig-Lüneburg, who was one of her closest confidantes. I owe a lot to one collection of her letters, _A Woman's Life in the Court of the Sun King_ , but I took the fic's title from another. [This excellent blog post](http://partylike1660.com/a-17th-century-christmas/) also provided me with a lot of info about Christmas traditions of the era.

_Ma Tante —_

Your Grace may have seen that I write to you from Monsieur’s estate at Saint-Cloud, where we have at last been freed from what must have been twenty consecutive masses (or more) at Versailles. All of which, I confess, I could not pass through entirely conscious. A word or two of Latin and your Liselotte has never slept better.

The Chevalier de Lorraine was so amused by this that every time I dozed he would place some new bit of embellishment into my hair, quite without my being aware of it. It was not until I awoke that the sudden heaviness of my head revealed what had been done. “I see I can never fall asleep around you,” I told him, “lest I risk being turned into an ornament.”

I can promise you that I finally looked at home in Versailles after he was done with me.

“My dear,” the Chevalier replied, “You should be so lucky.” He went on to tell me the many ways he felt I could improve my daily presentation with the help of some sparkle or shine, but I have become so used to this that I was quite insensible to it.

I confess — and whoever reads this letter can do what they wish with the knowledge — that I am glad to be away from the gleam of the palace, if only for the short respite from Her Piousness. It is a relief to be with Monsieur and the Chevalier in our own home, with the children come to stay, until the New Year calls us back to duty. We are never without amusement, for there is such regular melodrama to be found between my husbands that I often feel as though I am attending a play without having to go to the theatre.

You will forgive such scandalous language. I am, after all, known for my honesty in all matters.

Which is why I must admit to feeling a certain melancholy even in such fond company. Monsieur suggested that it was the oppressive frost that kept your leaf-rustling Liselotte from running amok in the open air as I so like to, but I know the true cause. There is no time of year that makes me ache for home like Christmas. I have passed several in France by now, but every year I’m gutted anew by loneliness. It’s as though there is a grand party somewhere which I have missed my invitation to — and not in the usual way, for I am hardly a favored party guest at court. No, I crave something much less heady than powders and card games, incense and chanting. I want something I can feel in my bones, a memory so real I can nearly touch it.

I remember days and days of spectacle in Hannover. I was but a little Liselotte but it seemed to me it lasted forever. I see it all so clearly: the magic that took our mundane wooden tables and turned them into landscapes of joy filled with silver ornaments and sweets and toys. The way the candlelight made each sugared treat into a bright jewel. Every crevice containing a new surprise for a curious child. The smell of apples and oranges, the pastry crumbs crushed in my small hands. The way my heart would beat rapidly with excitement when we would huddle in the cold for the parades, my throat sore with how loud I was singing. And the boxwood trees done up with baubles and ribbons. It still brings me joy to think of it.

This is not the way in France. Though they do not scrimp on ceremony on every other occasion, Christmas is an austere event. I said as much to Monsieur and the Chevalier when we were sat in bed one late morning (nothing outrageous, for I was only visiting and we were all safely buttoned into our silks). I suggested to them that Saint-Cloud could see a ghost of those Hannover days. A little tree, perhaps. Something.

Monsieur was not swayed. “You only want to bring us your German customs so that you can empty my purse,” he said, and then kissed my hands. Typical of his affection, which is at least half bite at the best of times. But I think perhaps he has me confused with another fair-haired person in his acquaintance.

And, of course, said acquaintance was immediately intrigued by a new opportunity to spill some gold. “Philippe, you can’t be averse to the possibility of a party! Even if it is one spawned by such provincial German traditions.”

At which point I jammed his ankle with my heel, resulting in an affronted caterwaul from him and a barely suppressed chuckle from Monsieur.

The Chevalier recovered smoothly. “I have developed great attachment to all things German!” he insisted. “Honestly, Madame, you only think the worst.”

Then I could not help but laugh. Monsieur reminded us that we had retreated to Saint-Cloud to get away from the constant festivities of the court, which neither of us could argue — though the Chevalier did try, when he was not pouting. I think our Chevalier is Versailles distilled into a person, so it is a wonder I do not dislike him more.

This was the end of things, so I will content myself with my memories of days gone by. Imagination has long been my dearest refuge, so I will conjure the smell of bread baking — the frost glittering on spindly Hannover branches — the bite of cold even under a rough blanket. Here everything is so soft, and yet it chafes.

Alas — what can’t be cured must be endured!

_Liselotte_

_Ma Tante,_

Since last I wrote, it seems two of my Philippes, Orléans and Lorraine, have found themselves in another of their regular spats. Neither appears to be speaking to the other, with each instead consumed by some private obsession that they have chosen not to share. If they continue to carry on like this, either I will be a widow by supper, or else find a very crowded marriage bed indeed. I think my littlest Philippe is the best mannered of the three, and his greatest amusement comes from banging on his toy drum from dawn until dusk.

However —

However.

Usually when Monsieur and the Chevalier are displeased with one another, I will find myself lending an ear to their complaints. Monsieur will look to be soothed, though he should never admit it, and the Chevalier needs a receptive audience for his soliloquies. But neither has sought my company in absence of each other’s. Instead I am left to coo at my children and write long letters to Monsieur’s girls. I have not been bothered at all. One wouldn’t think they would miss being bothered.

I can’t imagine what could be taking so much of their attention.

I shall think nothing of it. Dizzy spins of the mind are something I leave to the Chevalier.

_Liselotte_

_Ma Tante —_

I hope I did not leave you too much in suspense or worry, but with the rapidity of my writing, you are likely to get all three letters at once and have a hearty laugh at your Liselotte.

Not long before we were set to return to Versailles, the Chevalier de Lorraine came to fetch me in my chambers. He was being unnecessarily coy, even for him, so I asked him what exactly he was after. He accused me of having a suspicious mind, then of lacking appreciation for his presence. At this point I knew something was afoot, and I was soon rewarded.

The Chevalier took me by the arm and led me into his and Monsieur’s salon, which had been completely transformed: the tables had been heaped with little treasures that caught the light of the flickering candles, which were nestled between evergreen boughs and gleaming baubles. There were candied sweets and fruit tarts, the scent so transporting that I felt each step closer brought me back somehow to my long-ago home. There was even a small tree festooned with ribbons!

“It was such a bother getting it all together that I hope you appreciate it,” Monsieur said, with the air of one who had not a care in the world. But I could see he was studying my face to make sure I was pleased — and so pleased and surprised was I that I might have been caught with a tear in my eye. When he noticed, Monsieur was quick to remind me of the cost, and thus allowed me to smother my sentiment in sarcasm.

The Chevalier could not disguise his delight, his eyes positively twinkling as he brought me from one table to the next to make sure I didn’t miss anything. I suspect it was all his doing in the end; it seems to me he is always trying to make up for our bad start in other ways.

We brought in the children, who demolished the efforts of several days in mere moments. It looked as though a great wind had swept through the room when they were done with it, and I laughed happily to see them enjoying themselves just as I did when I was their age.

Sitting between Monsieur and Lorraine, I felt a sudden pang in my heart. It was as though someone had cut out the distance between my old home and my new one, then stitched up the gap so they were closer together than ever before. I did not feel the winter chill so much after that.

Shocking as it may be, I will confess that I don’t mind having two such men by my side.

_Liselotte_


End file.
